Returner Issues
by MoogleTerra
Summary: FF6 Little Locke Cole discovers that life growing up in Kohlingen can be rather lonely, until an odd boy and girl befriend him. Will the friendships last?
1. Willow's Son

**Returner Issues**

**A Locke Cole centric fic about how he grew up and entered the life of a Returner. **

Late in the fall season in the village of Kohlingen when the farmers were harvesting the last of their crops, and salting down their meats for the winter ahead, a local girl of about seventeen was crying out in utter agony. A young lad was hurrying around outside, boiling water, and hauling buckets of the bubbling liquid inside as quickly as he could. The villagers knew this was coming; the young couple was in love, so naturally, they spent nights together, and the girl skipped a month. With this knowledge, they accepted and tried to tune out the screams, and some children tried peeking their heads in the door to have a good look, only to be pushed out of the way by a very nerve wracked old woman.

"Get outta here you little pups! Need to get mah herbs I do." She would say as she pushed past with a basket empty, and return with it full of colorful stalks of green. Whenever the kids did get a look inside, they looked on in amazement at how that girl did not die from all the pain she was in. she was pale, and after a few hours of screaming and crying and passing out from exhaustion, she stopped altogether. The baby was out, and he was sleeping in a little quilt next to her. On the other side, the young man kneeled over her, grasping her hand tight and choked on sobs. The old woman sat in her chair, sipping a cup of tea, and sighed.

"Pull yourself together Willow, you're a father now. Think of a good name for your son." The woman said between sips.

Willow lifted his head up some from the bed sheets, shot a glare at his mother for her insensitivity, and buried it again.

"Let…me at least…mourn for a little while ya old hag!" He shouted muffled through the blankets. She ignored the old hag comment, and stood up with the intent of going to the kitchen for a washcloth. The baby slept peacefully through all this, his hand was holding onto his mother's pinky finger.

The old woman came back into the room with a clean washrag, and started cleaning the girl's body of blood and sweat. Her son did not even notice what she was doing until she started pulling up the towels and sheets for washing. He wiped his nose on the back of his hand and said, "Let me do that." Grabbing the cloth up from his mother's wrinkled hand, and wiping some dirt from his love's cheeks.

"I think you should name him after a tree or herb like you, sonny."

"Nah, he'd be made fun of growing up like me. I want him to have a nice name, something simple too."

He chewed his lip after finding that his girl was clean of her birthing, knowing that the next step was…burial.

"I'm tellin' you, natural names bring good luck!" His mother insisted.

"Ma! Shush! Jeez, I can already tell that this little guy will be lucky. He's sleeping through listening to you talk. Wish I was as lucky."

The old lady whapped him of the head with her hand, making him temporarily see little spots in his vision.

"Mind your tongue boy, you may have your own young now, but that doesn't mean I can't still smack some sense into ya."

She went back into the kitchen to mind her herbs growing in the window boxes, muttering how when she was young, sons still minded their mothers, and were respectful etc.

Willow turned his gaze back on his son, who had woken up and was now playing with his mother's hand. He cooed and made baby noises at the lifeless hand.

"I think I have the name for you kid. How's about Locke?" The child let out a squeal, as if in approval of the name, and waved his small hands in the air.

"Hell of a lot better than Fir or Maple huh? No kid'll make fun of you now. That's a man's name!" Willow laughed, putting a blanket over his dead love's head, as was the thing to do with a corpse. Before laying it down over her hair, he gave a last long look at her warm brown hair, and pointed nose, and high cheekbones, and full used to be red lips. Even in death, she was the most beautiful creature alive to him. A cryptic thought passed through his mind, only to shake it away. He had the means to do that action, but…what would his mother say? Or Locke for that matter? No, he had to bury Amaryllis. She did not deserve a fate lying on a bed preserved perfectly; she needed to be peacefully in the ground. Where the dead belong.

* * *

**I know this first chapter's short, but I had to get the intro out of the way! review?**


	2. A New Friend

**Returner Issues**

**Chapter Two**

**A/N: I hope you readers out there are liking where this is going. Keep in mind, this is a fan fiction. Not all the details will be canon. Anyhoo, enjoy. **

As any child learned quickly and early in life, if you do something bad, you get punished for it. Little Locke Cole was not any different, though the punishments did not deter his conquests. It seemed to his father that his son was prone to trouble, whether it was stealing bread from the bakery, or dropping tomatoes from the treetops on passersby below the leaves.

On a cloudy day in spring, Willow's mother was in her shed behind their home mixing teas and draughts for some customers who had hay fever. Locke was outside digging up roots in the garden, because the only person he would listen to was his grandmother, much to his father's dismay. He brushed the sweat away from his brown bangs with a dirtied hand holding a small shovel. The boy often took his time digging in the garden to think about things. Like why in the world did _he_ have to dig up these smelly roots? They made his hand turn green or purple sometimes, not all the way, but like, stained that color. Why didn't his father have to do anything? Grandma let him just sit around the house, looking at old pictures of momma and read their old love letters. At night, father would go to the Pub in the Square to play cards and drink cheap ales and beer with other guys relaxing from the day. The difference was, dad didn't have a long day or any kind of day for that matter. He just sat around sighing and sometimes helping grandma with the garden. However, that wasn't very often, maybe around the harvest dad would help cut and bring in the crops. When you get right down to it, dad didn't so squat.

Locke tugged a particularly large root with added force because the bugger was being a pain. That did not seem to be working, so he pulled his knees up, and sat back on his haunches to get a better grip on the ugly thing. He tugged, pulled, grunted, and strained his little seven-year-old twiggy arms until instead of the plant giving up, Locke did. His hand slipped, causing the boy to tumble over backwards into a wheelbarrow filled up with carrots, basil, asparagus, lettuce, parsley, and a number of odd-looking plants grandma used to make her village famous draughts. The wheelbarrow tipped over with a loud crash onto the fence, scattering all the plants gathered inside onto the dirt path between the house and garden.

The boy was in the middle of it all, splayed out on his back, covered in dirt and vegetable leaves. As he blinked away the sunlight, streaming through the trees above, he heard his grandma inside screaming, "What the _bloody hell_ was that!"

He did not bother to move because he knew if he ran; the old bat would catch him when he snuck back in the house through his window. It had happened about thirty-seven times already, and honestly, Locke was growing tired of settling between his quilts and almost falling asleep to be woken up again by a crazy ancient old lady with a bad temper and a cane.

Thinking of all this certainly dulled the impact of grandma running out the back door waving her cane around, shouting that he was an idiot, with good ole dad behind, and looking as pale as the ghost he was quickly becoming. He thought about how hard it must have been for his father not being the head of the household as his grandmother yanked him up by the front of his shirt to ask in her screechy chicken yell why the hell he overturned the wheelbarrow she had been adding plants to for the past two weeks. While Locke tried saying in his weaker child's voice that it was an accident, his father standing off to the side, trying to give reprimands as well, but not having much effect, actually, Locke didn't even notice his father there until thinking back on the day later.

Down came grandma's cane with the bronze handle and the wicker casing on his back after being smacked across the face and knocked backwards with a stinging pain on his cheek. His grandmother was one of those old people who believed that you have to beat the bad out of children so they can function in society properly. So, despite it being accident, Locke's back was bruised after grandma was done, with bleeding gashes and scratches from squirming around. The old woman retreated into the house after ordering him to clean up the mess, with Willow in tow, who looked regretfully back at his son for the last time that day.

The brunette boy picked himself up from the dirt pathway with a pained expression, a curse and a sniffle, because whether he was a boy or not, being smacked repeatedly hurt a lot, so tears naturally streamed down his face. He wiped his face off on his shirt, making the once white garment even filthier than before. For the next half hour, he gathered up all the fallen misplaced vegetation, herbs, and roots from the ground and put them all back in the wheelbarrow. Like any child in that situation, trying his best not to hurt himself further, he was thinking that it was not fair.

"Why did the old hag have to hit so hard? Agh, it hurts…" Puts lettuce heads on top of peppers.

"It was an accident. Sheesh." Throws a carrot one by one into the cart, missing only once.

"Dad…you could've said something." He spat, pulling some stalks of asparagus together.

"…No you couldn't have. All you think about is momma."

* * *

Locke swung his skinny legs in the air as he sat on his favorite tree branch way up high where no one could see him unless they looked up from right underneath him. He finished all of his chores, did a few extra just to put grandma in a good mood, and took off with a few rolls for a snack. One not very normal thing about him was that he didn't have any friends. So instead of playing games like hide and seek, duck, duck, goose, and tag, he wandered around the woods behind his house, or sat in his tree watching people do their daily routines. Mothers shopped, gardened, and made their children mind. Fathers worked, chopped wood, gardened, talked with other men, and sometimes went to the Pub for hours until after dark. And the children played and did chores like any others. Boys pulled girl's pigtails, chased them, and sometimes the older ones, they would hold their hands.

The brunette argued with himself on a regular basis, meaning every few hours, whether he should go ask if he could play too. It seldom worked because he was forever branded an outcast because of his father being lazy and moping all the time. Therefore, he was called a bad egg by the parents around town. So to get back at them for those snide comments, Locke would steal their money pouches, and sometimes pies that sat on open windowsills.

The sky was blending into darker colors, signaling that night was coming soon, with the swirls of blues, oranges, and reds mixing with clouds. He did not realize that he sat there for so long; it felt like he had just gotten up there.

He sighed and muttered to himself, "Well, better get back." And as he was climbing back down the moss-covered branches a nut pelted his back. He hissed in pain and being the clumsy thing that he was, slipped and fell down the remaining ten feet to the ground. Landing on his back didn't feel too good either, white flashed into his vision, and he heard a voice shouting, "Crap! I killed him! I'm only eight and I already killed someone! I'm so grounded!"

After that, he chuckled weakly before passing out of consciousness.

* * *

A young boy with deep black hair was kneeling beside the guy he just "killed" wondering what in the world to do. Should he tell someone, tell his mom, or just leave it there.

"Gods, why me? I'm too young!" He cried in frustration, grabbing his head in his hands, asking some unknown creature in the wind. He tried making sure if the boy was dead. He poked him with several different sized sticks and only made him produce moans that he figured was just air escaping the body as rigor mortis set in. Humans were made up of mostly water, and it was kind of hot that day, so what does water become when it's hot? That's right, gas! Air! The boy's logic astounded him to no end.

Then after deducing this conclusion, the boy tried kicking him, and only managed to get a hand to grab his ankle, another sign of rigor mortis! The muscles tightening due to the coagulation of the proteins! Therefore, the fingers tightened around his ankle as he tried withdrawing his foot from the blow. Hah, he couldn't believe that he actually thought that this guy was not dead. As if.

Then he turned him over on his stomach, emitting another moan from the dead body, and examined his back pockets for something interesting. Like money. He had been wanting a new shirt or some stick candy all day, and this guy didn't need his money anymore, unless there was currency in heaven. That would be a total jip. When his hands brushed over the boy's back, which was now soaked in blood by the way but being ignored by the black haired boy, the boy let out a scream of agony.

"AHHHHH! Stop that!" He screamed at the person bending over him.

"Ahhh! You stop! You're supposed to be dead!" The boy retorted, yanking his hands back quick.

"What the hell do you mean? I'm _alive!"_

"Nuh-uh! You had rigor mortis, and oh my gods!" He stopped, touching his lips in amazement.

"What?" Locke asked, trying to sit up gingerly.

"I brought you back to life when I touched your back! I performed a miracle!" He cried, throwing his arms up in the air, whooping with joy.

"I am so cool now!"

Locke stared at this kid like he had huge insect eyes and antennae sticking out from his ears.

"You're…an idiot aren't you?" Locke asked, cocking his head to the side, considering this watching the guy's expression fade.

"What do ya mean? That I _didn't _bring you back to the world of the living?"

"Yeah, you didn't. I just conked out when…YOU!" He pointed an angry finger at his assailant.

"You're the one who threw that nut at me and made me fall, on my back that my old fart of a grandma beat the crap out of!" The brunette shouted, growing red in the face with anger.

"It's your fault I passed out! What the heck were ya doing throwing nuts at me anyways?"

"If you weren't such a klutz, you wouldn't have fallen." The boy replied calmly, folding his arms.

"How would you like it if someone was throwing things at you when you were in pain and trying to climb back down a freaking tree?" Locke snapped.

"If I was in pain, I wouldn't be in the tree to begin with."

Locke stood up quickly, walking back towards his house, hoping to heaven above that this weird guy wouldn't follow.

"Hey! Don't you wanna know what I wanted?" The kid called after him, standing up too, following.

The brunette stopped after a moment of still walking away, turned around to face this strange person.

"Okay then, what?"

"I wanted to know if you'd play with me." He said simply, scratching his neck with little too long fingernails.

Locke froze, not hearing those words ever in his life. The wind whistled and danced through the trees that night, making the leaves flutter on their stems. The moon started rising, and stars were coming into existence in the sky above the two boys. One was waiting for a simple answer, and the other was reeling, not sure what to say back. Cicadas started their summer songs of love and mating, and fireflies woke up for the night. They flew around the boys' legs and torsos, blinking yellow little lights. The answer Locke was looking for was so simple, but for some reason it took him a few moments to think of it, and finally he answered, "Okay."

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**So guys, what do you think so far? Review please?**


	3. In the Forest

**Returner Issues**

**Chapter 3**

In a little musty, slightly dusty bedroom, the morning was creeping in. Birds could be heard outside, chirping, tweeting, and just making noises for the heck of it, to the chagrin of the small boy who inhabited the little room. In his half sleep he turned over, bringing his quilt over his face and nuzzling his nose into the chocobo feather pillows. His bed creaked under his shifting weight, adding to the annoying morning noises.

The sun, that tricky star, rose in the dewy air above the planet, and the light crept through the boy's curtains. What sad curtains they were, holes here and there, and made of a gauzy, flimsy material that barely hid anything like curtains should. Because of this, Locke groaned into the pillows, really wanting to sleep a little longer.

As he sat up, muscles stretching, legs swinging over the side of the bed, the sounds of his grandmother cooking breakfast perked him up. He ran a hand through his messy brown hair, and his back muscles seemed to cry in protest to all of the movement. He groaned again, reminded of the previous day's events.

Hopefully his grandmother would be in a better mood today.

Locke went home pretty late the night before, after all the children were already in bed, and his father had returned from the pub.

The reason he was so late was because he was in shock, so after his new friend left he fell backwards into the leaves. He just laid there for hours watching the clouds swarm over the moon, watching the stars twinkle and shine, like lanterns in the night sky. His mind reeled, his eyes teared up, his pulse quickened and slowed as he replayed those words over and over.

"_I wanted to know if you'd play with me."_

After awhile it dawned on him that he forgot to ask the boy's name and that made him feel incredibly rude. But then again, the boy did not ask for Locke's name either, so he guessed they were even.

He lugged himself up and went to his closet to yank down a shirt and a pair of black pants. While he changed into his day wear, tossing his nightclothes into the wooden hamper in the corner, he hoped to see the boy again that day.

His murky blue eyes kept to his plate during breakfast, staying lowered as he brought a forkful of egg to his mouth, barely glancing up when his father stumbled in. His face needed a shave, his hair looked dirty, his eyes were red and puffy from his hangover. Grandmother clicked her tongue, unhappy with her son being such a deadbeat, and got up to fix him a plate. Willow sank into his chair, breathing "Good morning" to his mother and son, voice forgettable and flat. Between bites of salted pork and toast, Grandmother brought over Willow's food and a mug of her special hangover cure. It was a strange concoction that apparently had ginger and other unrecognizable herbs.

Locke wolfed down the rest of his food, and quickly flew through his morning chores so he could go back to the woods. His grandmother did not mind him going off so quickly, satisfied that he was so prompt with his work.

The forest behind his house was large, with tall oak and spruce trees that created a canopy of leaves and branches. Sunlight streamed down softly, casting the wood in a yellow glow that glinted off leaves, tree bark, pollen, and rocks.

Through an almost tunnel like area Locke went, searching for the right area to wait on the boy from the day before. An area that was close to the trees and stones that the village children played around. Locke's best bet was to be close to Kohlingen if he wanted to be spotted by the dark haired boy who thought that he killed Locke simply by knocking him out of a tree. He decided that the boy must not be very bright because even Locke, who didn't attend school due to his chores, knew that it was rather difficult for somebody to die just by falling out of a tree. Break a bone? Yeah, but die? Not likely.

On the smoothest boulder he could find, Locke perched atop it, legs out in front of him comfortably, hands behind him, propping him up, and face held skywards, enjoying the sun rays that filtered down from above through the leaves.

An hour or so passed by, and Locke decided to stay there, figuring he had nothing better to do that day. Shifting to lay on his back, the brunette stretched out, and eventually fell asleep there in the forest.

_Running, running, why am I always running?_

_Fast footfalls came behind him. Chasing him. Getting closer and closer. _

_Around a corner, down an alley, up and over the wire fence._

_Pausing, I look down at my feet, chest heaving, panting, gasping. _

_In my left hand is a jewel necklace stolen from a lady's throat. _

_I smile briefly, before taking off again, not stopping once until I reach the next town. _

Locke felt something firm poking and prodding at his head, waking him from his dream, eyes fluttering open to see the boy from yesterday holding a stick.

"You're not dead again, are you?" He asked, giving Locke a toothy grin.

"Nah, cut that out," Locke said, sitting up, blinking in the afternoon sun.

"Good, because I don't think I have anymore mojo to bring you back to this world a second time."

"'Mojo?' What in the goddess' name are you talkin' about?" Locke quirked his eyebrow up, returning the boy's smile.

"You don't know? Seriously?" The boy's eyes widened, in what looked like honest surprise.

"Mojo is another word for magic. You know what magic is, right?"

"I think so, but I only have the stories my grandmother told me when I was little to go on," Locke replied, feeling pretty darn happy to be having a conversation with somebody his age.

"Well, do you know that it's a sort of mystical force that lets you control elements, and other neat stuff like that," The boy went on, plopping down on the stone next to Locke.

"I was reading all about in this new book my father got for me in Jidoor."

Diverting away from the conversation, Locke asked,"What's your name anyways? I'm Locke."

"Oh, I'm Arcell. Did I forget to introduce myself last night?" He asked, rubbing his head with a grin.

"Yeah, but it's alright. Nice to meet you!" The brunette held out a hand, laughing some. Arcell grabbed Locke's hand and shook it vigorously.

"Nice to meet you too, man! Now back to magic..."

The boys spent the rest of that day under the elm and oak trees talking about all the folklore and fairy tales they had heard. Arcell apparently had a strange fascination in anything abnormal and whimsical.

At supper time, the black haired boy had to run back home or his mother would be angry that he was late again. Locke understood, and waved with his entire right arm at his new friend.

"See you tomorrow Locke! Same place?" Arcell called, stopping a few yards away to hear the answer.

"Yeah, sure, man! See ya!" He yelled back, hopping down from the rock.

* * *

"Hey sonny, have a nice day out? The flowers seemed happy, so that means the weather was good," Grandmother croaked from the stove, stirring some vegetables around in her frying pan.

"Yeah, actually, Gran. I made a new friend too," Locke smiled, happy that his grandmother was in a pleasant mood that day, a rarity in itself. Perhaps his good mood had rubbed off on her as he had approached the house.

"Oh really now? He isn't imaginary is he?" Grandmother clucked, adding a pinch of pepper to the veggies.

"Ha ha, funny. No, he is not imaginary at all. His name is Arcell," Locke smirked, feeling triumphant that his new friend was not indeed a figment of his imagination like Larry had been. He went to the sink to wash his hands, then started to set the table with silverware for the evening meal.

"What sort of things did you two do then? Play in the woods and burn ants and other bugs with a mirror?"

"We talked about stuff," Locke said, putting a fork and knife on either side of a plate on the round table, then went back to the counter to get another set.

"What sort of stuff did you boys talk about? Hmm? Girls perhaps?" The old woman pried, her wrinkled mouth turning up in a grin.

"We talked about magic and legends."

"Really now? Well, I could spin a few yarns for ya if you want some new material. Bring that Arcell boy by tomorrow after breakfast and I'll tell you some stories about this area that nobody else in the village knows an inkling of!" She lifted her cooking pot and poured the creamy soup into a serving dish, and scraped the vegetables into a plate. Locke came over and carried the dishes to the table after finishing with the forks and knives. He saw the soup, and remembered to grab some spoons from the cabinet.

The pair sat down at the table across from each other, Grandmother caught her grandson's eyes. Her slightly milky pale eyes glittered, crow's feet drooping at the skin to the edges of them.

"Don't neglect to thank the agriculture goddess for the food sonny," She clucked, grinning some.

Locke sighed, "Thank you oh goddess Siren, for your help with the crops, and for providing us with tasty food."

"Good, here's a roll," The elderly woman chirped, handing the boy a yeast roll with her aged hand.

"Thanks Gran," Locke said, cringing. He didn't really believe that the agricultural goddess was named Siren, or that there was an agricultural goddess. But he had to play along with what his Grandmother told him or she would be very angry with him.

Despite having to thank what he thought to be a false goddess, Locke really enjoyed his grandmother's cooking. He figured it went along with her being an herb doctor.

* * *

Willow staggered in when Locke was finishing up the supper dishes, minus the plate left for his father, and fell face first on to the sofa in the main room. He heard his grandmother's knitting needles stop clicking together, then a moment later, a sharp smack was heard.

"Ouch!" His father's slurred voice cried.

"Wake up you dolt! Go eat dinner, then you can pass out," His grandmother snapped, easily annoyed at her son.

And so Willow walked as if he were trying to walk on someone's back into the kitchen. He sat down and ate rather sloppily, still intoxicated. Locke scowled at his father, leaving the room with out so much as a good night wish.

In Locke's little bedroom with the dust balls and musky curtains, he lay on his bed in silence. He hoped that his father would not say or do something stupid whenever he brought Arcell to their home the next day.

A sigh left his chapped lips, and the thought, _"It really is difficult being the son of a man with a shattered heart. I hope I don't become him when I grow up."_

* * *

A/N: Hahaha, bet cha thought I gave up on this story. Pssssh, nah. Life just happened, and is settling down, thankfully. Anyways, thanks for reading! What tales shall old Widow Cole weave in the next chapter? Stick around, and you'll find out!

-Abs. Yuki


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